Chemistry, Of Course
by brazenbell
Summary: She's a Mudblood. How disgusting. But Malfoy, somehow, cannot help himself.


Harry Potter.

Draco recognized him before he even saw the scar. Anybody would have, with those round glasses and that shock of coal-coloured hair. And Draco, of course, was Draco Malfoy, the son of Lucius Malfoy, the wealthy and handsome pureblood prodigy. Clearly he and Harry were meant to pair up and take this school by storm. That fire-haired Weasel seemed to have latched onto him already, but he could be easily removed.

Draco stood for a moment and scanned the ranks of students before he made his move on Harry. None of them were particularly impressive – except –

There was one girl, with bushy hair and clear skin, still slightly plump from early childhood. She was hovering a few paces behind Harry and studying him with an interest that could only be described as academic.

She was cute.

Draco gazed at the girl for a moment and then returned his focus to Harry Potter, striding over to introduce himself. More time for the girl later.

Then he found out she was a Mudblood.

* * *

She was also, he learned, uncommonly clever. His scorn for her grew like a blast-ended skrewt, but didn't develop into full-blown hatred until she banded together with Potter and the Weasel boy. Every time she answered a question correctly in class or strode purposefully past him with her robe swirling about her ankles, his blood would boil and his stomach would twist. Once he actually stopped short to catch his breath, which had shortened horribly upon the sight of her, and he didn't come to until Goyle smacked a rock-like fist against his shoulder.

In their third year, she hit him.

Afterward, he couldn't even remember what he'd done. He could only remember the sharp and sudden contact between her palm and his cheekbone, the shock, the burning humiliation that followed, and the sensation of watching her run away. The sheer _mortification_, really, but more than anything else, a consciousness of having been left behind.

The feeling of uselessness clung to him for months. She had hit him, and he had not hit her back. Had he wanted to? Yes. He had wanted to hurt her. He was a coward.

In their fourth year, she attended the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum, and any and all admiration that Draco had harbored for the Bulgarian Quidditch team quickly vanished. At the same time, his desire to attend Durmstrang increased tenfold. If he had gone to Durmstrang, _he_ could have been the Seeker for Bulgaria's team. He was fairly good at Quidditch, after all, and with the proper training, the proper roots... _He_ could have been in Krum's place. _He_ could have been a Triwizard champion. _He_ could have gone to the Yule Ball with Hermione Granger. He didn't catch that last thought until much later, when he was lying in bed and mulling over the night's events; he shoved it away immediately, but it crept back into his brain, insidious and fearless like the Granger girl.

It just wasn't fair! She was smarter than he was and she was a Mudblood, and she was courageous and she was a Mudblood, and she was so beautiful and so _independent_, and if he was a pureblood heir and she was a filthy Muggle, then why was he so jealous, and why did he _want_ her so badly?

In their fifth year, he kissed her.

* * *

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

Draco slid haughtily into a cushioned armchair and leaned across the library table. "You seem to have checked out the only copy of _Home Life and Social Habits of British Muggles_, Granger."

"That's a book about Muggles, Malfoy. You couldn't possibly be interested in actually _reading_ it."

"Actually I am, Granger, since my Charms grade has been rapidly slipping, and Professor Flitwick is requiring that I do an extra-credit assignment on how Muggles get by _without_ the use of Charms."

"Is he thinking you might need to imitate them?" she snarked. "How are you failing Charms already, anyway? It's only September, and this is our fifth year. You'd think you'd have learned the basics by now."

He sneered at her and reached for the book. She clapped it shut and hugged it to her chest protectively. "No."

He stared at her in disbelief. "C'mon, Granger, you're a Muggle yourself! You already know how these things work! What do you need it for?"

"I'm not a Muggle, I'm _Muggle-born_! And I checked it out first. If you wanted it so badly, perhaps you should have come here sooner instead of slacking off."

Draco groaned and pushed his chair back. "Don't make me come over there."

"I'll hit you," she said threateningly. "You know I will."

"What, in your precious library?" As if on cue, Madame Pince glanced up at them disapprovingly. Hermione wilted. "Just give me the book, Granger, and we'll make this easier for everybody."

"No," she said stubbornly.

He darted around the table and grabbed it, but her hold was secure. He wrenched at it; she stumbled, but refused to relinquish the book; and they fell under the table, Draco hitting his head on the way.

"Ow! Granger!"

"It was your own stupid fault! Let _go_!"

"I will _not_ let go. I need it more than you."

"I had it first… er, Malfoy?"

Draco had shut his eyes tightly and was breathing hard, trying to control the pulse of his blood. Her hair was tickling his face and making it awfully difficult to think. They were not touching, but he could still feel the heat of her body, pulsing off her in waves. They lay side by side under the table, both sets of hands clenched around the book.

"Malfoy, are you okay? Really, I'm sorry you hit your head. You can take the book, here, take it –" She let it go and pushed it into his chest, taking his face in her hands. "Here, open your eyes, let me see if you've got a concussion. Look, I really admire your willingness to do extra credit, really I do…"

Draco opened his eyes. Her face was less than two inches from his. This was the only chance he was ever going to get, and he took it.

Half a millisecond after his lips touched hers she punched him in the stomach. He shouted and flailed about, trying to hit her back, but she was already clambering out from under the table and shrilling, "Well! I cannot believe the _nerve_ of you, Draco Malfoy! How dare you even _think_ to presume that you… I… ugh!"

Draco sat up and rubbed his head, groaning as she stomped away. At least he had the book. _Well, what did you expect?_ some inner part of him taunted. _That she was going to fall into your arms with longing sighs? Of course she hit you._

* * *

Of course, four days later she pushed him into a broom closet and shoved her tongue down his throat, so he must have done something right.


End file.
